


Nineteen Years Later

by prettygr88n



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Divorced Harry Potter & Ginny Weasley, Draco Malfoy in the Muggle World, Harry Potter in the Muggle World, Living abroad, M/M, Not Epilogue Compliant, Past Infidelity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-20
Updated: 2021-01-20
Packaged: 2021-03-18 16:21:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28869957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prettygr88n/pseuds/prettygr88n
Summary: “He likes you,” this time she repeated the words in a singsong sort of voice that his daughter would use.“You don’t even know if I’m gay,” he said.She gave him a look that clearly stated, ‘Are you kidding me?’“You don’t even know if I’m interested.”Not a muscle changed on her face.Harry sighed in defeat.After the debacle of his very public divorce, Harry Potter retreats to Muggle Paris where he drinks far too much coffee, speaks far too little French, and spends far too much time in a flower shop.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy/Other(s), Harry Potter/Other(s)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 192





	Nineteen Years Later

After the divorce he told his children that he was moving to Paris because he wanted something new. What he really wanted was to escape the embarrassment of having his separation and numerous infidelities trotted into the public domain. What he really, really wanted was to crawl into a hole until his name was forgotten entirely, but he still had three children and monthly alimony payments so he settled on Paris.

The new flat was purposefully Muggle and larger than he really needed with three bedrooms, two bathrooms, a kitchen, dining room, sitting room, and a balcony. It came furnished with just enough Ikea cast offs to make the place look habitable, and with stark white walls stained by cigarette smoke from the last inhabitant. There were two different sets of wine glasses in the cupboards, and only one chipped mug, but Harry had a microwave, a television, an electric razor, and a purpose.

He gamely set up a Muggle bank account, located the nearest supermarket, applied for a credit card, and hooked up the old fashioned rotary phone to the network, even though he didn’t know anyone else with a Muggle phone number. He wandered the streets in his neighborhood, learned how to hail a taxi, and stayed far, far away from the Wizarding sector. 

However, Harry found out very quickly that for all of his grand plans, he was not very good at being on his own. He was used to having someone remind him to turn off the oven, or to know what kind of milk to buy at the market. Twice he’d run out of loo roll unexpectedly, and it had taken him an embarrassing number of attempts to remember how to cook his eggs how he liked. In defense of his failings he took to living like the bachelor he’d never had the chance to be. He wore his pants two days in a row and ate his cereal out of the chipped mug when all the bowls were dirty. He left rings on the glass coffee table and drank beer with breakfast when he ran out of juice. He killed his first houseplant and bought either far too much food, or far too little, for one person to eat.

After a month Harry realized that he apparently enjoyed living like a barnyard animal. It felt as if he was living life to his own design for once. 

It was the loneliness that eventually got to him. It was the drowning silences, the loss of the general buzz of a busy household inhabited by three children and a wife with a large extended family who all had round-the-clock access to the floo. Most days he kept the telly on for company, even though he didn’t understand what the adverts were trying to sell him on. Some days he considered buying a cat so he’d have something to talk to. The dead fern on the balcony was not much for conversation. 

When the loneliness got to be too much he went for walks. He mapped out his neighborhood, noting the location of the markets, numerous cafés, the florist, the pharmacy, and the ice cream parlor. He discovered new routes to interesting landmarks and window shopped as he walked along. Sometimes he stopped for a cup of coffee, but never at the same café twice. He even sat in on a yoga session in the gardens around the Louvre. It hadn’t made him feel relaxed at all, only sore and old.

He liked the Eiffel Tower quite a bit. It was only a twenty-minute walk from his new flat, and it served as a location marker for whenever he became lost in the city. There was a part of the park at its base that was sectioned off from the rest by winding beds of flowers. Sometimes he sat there and looked up at the great tower. Sometimes he brought a baguette to eat while he rested on the grass. Sometimes he would think of his children, or his ex-wife, or even the numerous paramours that had led to his eventual divorce. Sometimes he would think of Hogwarts and wonder if the giant squid was still alive. Mostly he would sit, munching on brie and bacon, and pretend he was happy with the choices he had made in his life.

When Harry first saw him he stared. Not because he was surprised, but because he was confused. He knew there was something about that pointed chin and the face it was on that should be familiar, but he couldn’t place why. It wasn’t until he heard the lilting voice that the pieces snapped together. Even in French, Draco Malfoy drawled like a bored aristocrat.

Malfoy hadn’t noticed Harry standing awkwardly on the sidewalk outside of the café, and likely wouldn’t, given how he was practically bent over the table towards his dining mate. No, tonight there was only one man for Malfoy’s eyes and it wasn’t Harry.

Harry wondered what made him do it even as he waved a waiter over and indicated in gestures that he wanted a table in the less popular indoor seating area. Maybe he had been thinking of Hogwarts too much lately. Maybe it was just too easy to fall back into bad habits. Mostly, he was curious.

Since the shuttered doors that made up the front wall of the café were open it hardly felt as if he was indoor at all. But the thick supports and the other patrons blocked him enough that Harry felt confident in his subterfuge. He ordered an espresso to give himself something to do with his hands and watched.

Malfoy would never be the handsome sort, his face was too angular and his body was too sharp for that. But he’d grown his hair out so that it floated around his shoulders and his face, and he had gained a grace in his movements that had not been present when they were both boys. It helped to soften his still pinched expression. It also probably helped that he was clearly enjoying his conversation partner. Harry was sure he’d never seen Malfoy smile and laugh so openly back in England.

It was also evident that Malfoy was both gay and a flirt. He’d apparently mastered the toss of his head that knocked his hair out of his eyes, and the way he drew attention to his mouth as he drank and ate was practically obscene. He touched his dinning partner at every given opportunity, and Harry even caught sight of a game of footsie being played out under the table. In fact the other man’s body language was so clearly geared towards ‘your place or mine?’ that by the time they were shuffling with the bill (Harry noted that Malfoy did not even reach for his wallet) he was sure the two men would slip into the night never to be seen by Harry again.

And they did indeed leave the table and round the corner of the café hand in hand so Harry tried to put the images he had just witnessed from his mind. Abandoned once more to his quiet solidarity, he turned his attention to finishing his untouched espresso so he could get the hell back to his boring, yet predictable flat.

A brique noise,a clipping of impatient feet, made Harry look up again. Malfoy was staring at him and sighing heavily.

“I don’t suppose I can get you to stop following me without speaking to you, can I?”

Harry gapped like a fish, looked around for a sign of Malfoy’s partner, and scrambled for an excuse. This was why he hadn’t cut it as an undercover Auror; he had never been a convincing liar.

“I am guessing that you thought you were well hidden and therefore hadn’t noticed that I saw you staring at me on the street before you even came in? Is that what that face means?”

Malfoy looked entirely too smug, an expression that called back an, until now forgotten, ire.

“Well, what do you want then?” Harry snapped. He had a sudden and desperate urge to retreat back into his lonely solidarity. What did he care about Draco Malfoy anyway? 

Malfoy’s lips twitched. It was almost a smile. “Oh, quite a lot of things, Potter. But first, desert.” With an arrogant flick of the wrist Malfoy called over the waiter and ordered something in French that Harry was only sure had chocolate in the title. “Now, are you here on Ministry business?”

“What?” Harry very nearly laughed in surprise. “No. No I am not.”

“No plans to haul me back to England, or to throw me in Azkaban?” Malfoy did not appear to be concerned by either of these prospects and was instead lounging back in his chair with an almost bored expression.

“I don’t work for the Ministry anymore, Malfoy,” explained Harry. He wondered why he even had to. Surely the Daily Prophet was available in Paris somewhere. Or perhaps his humiliation had been spread across the front pages of the French equivalent.

Malfoy made a vaguely interested noise, but accepted his piece of chocolate torte, several seconds later, with more glee. “So then, why spy on me?” He asked just before taking an inhumanely large bite.

Harry watched the expressions play across Malfoy’s face with an interest akin to fascination. There was bliss, joy, ecstasy, and an almost sexual moan of delight. All of which were more revealing expressions than Harry had been witness to during all six years of school together.

“I wasn’t spying on you,” Harry felt the need to make that point very clear. He wasn’t sure he should admit the next, but couldn’t come up with any other reasonable explanation. “I was just curious.” He was also thinking that he had better say something before Malfoy moaned again.

Thankfully Malfoy only rolled his eyes and swallowed, but somehow even that was overtly sexualized. “Obviously,” he began, dabbing at his chocolate stained lips with a napkin. “Then why not just walk up to the table and say something?”

Harry felt ridiculous having to explain it. “Because you’re Draco Malfoy and I’m Harry Potter.”

“So?”

“So?” Harry repeated. “So, I can’t just walk up and say, ‘Hello, long time, no see, what the hell are you doing here?’”

Malfoy arched a finely manicured eyebrow and gave Harry a look that was so familiar it made him feel grounded instantly. A world where Draco Malfoy was doing things like smiling and moaning was ridiculous. A world where Draco Malfoy was doing his best to express, ‘How much of an idiot are you really, Potter?’ made much more sense. Instead, Malfoy said, “Hello, Potter. What the hell are you doing here?”

Harry scowled, but that too felt like the right sort of response so he didn’t fight it. But when he didn’t immediately answer Malfoy took another bite of his desert that was so enormous that they didn’t speak for a number of minutes.

“Have you ever been to Montmartre?” asked Malfoy after he had nearly polished off his torte.

Harry did not apparently need to answer. Perhaps his response was clear from his expression. Hermione had always said that his face was an open book.

“I see not,” Malfoy muttered. “Wednesday would be a good day to go. It’s supposed to be sunny and there’s a festival going on near Notre Dame that will occupy a majority of the tourists.”

“Okay,” said Harry, wondering if he’d missed something.

Malfoy was rummaging in his coat pocket. “Meet me here, Wednesday, at half ten.”

“Why?” asked Harry even as Malfoy stood. Somehow he felt he had completely lost control of this conversation, although he doubted he had ever had any control to begin with.

“Because I will answer your questions and you will answer mine.” Malfoy paused; fingers poised to hand Harry a scrap of paper without actually passing it over. “And,” he added. “You look a bit lost.” Then with a toss of his hand and a mocking smirk Malfoy left the table and sauntered out onto the busy Parisian street. 

And Harry was left with an annoying buzzing in his head, a mostly eaten chocolate torte (that was admittedly excellent), and the bill.

The chocolate stained business card read:

Draco Malfoy  
L’Artisan Fleuriste

There was also an address, a shop number, a mobile number, and even an email address. Apparently Draco Malfoy, Prince of the Purebloods, had done a full Muggle.

On Wednesday morning Harry toyed with the card as he stared at the white ceiling above his bed. There’d been water damage at some point. The paint was cracked and blistered in places as if about to burst. He could stay at home and see if he could fix it. There was a DIY shop on the corner and he was sure the problem was only cosmetic. He could even look up household spells, but he vaguely thought that would be cheating.

After he fixed it, he could paint the ceiling blue. Harry seemed to recall Ginny saying something about blue being a soothing color for a bedroom. It was supposed to help you fall asleep. He tried to imagine the whole bedroom blue, and then wondered what shade would induce the most relaxation. But then he glanced down at the card in his hands and his distraction efforts failed.

Angrily he tossed the card onto his bedside table and walked to the ensuite. What did he care about Draco Malfoy anyway? It wasn’t his business what the man was doing in Paris or why he was a florist of all things. He was nearly thirty-six; he should have stopped caring about schoolboys years ago.

He continued arguing with himself until he realized that he was peering into the bathroom mirror, actually trying to put some style into his hopeless hair. He was primping for Draco Malfoy.

“Fuck,” he told his reflection. He almost wished it were a magical one that might commiserate with him. Instead his perfectly normal reflection glared back at him. He sighed and rested his forehead against the cool glass. “You are such an idiot, Potter.”

Harry didn’t know why he kept drinking espresso. He didn’t even really like coffee that much, particularly when it was strong as hell and came in the most emasculating tiny cup. But he didn’t know any French and he at least knew how to pronounce ‘espresso’ without embarrassing himself.

Malfoy, had surprisingly been on time, even though Harry had expected him to saunter up twenty minutes late if he showed up at all. Instead he’d been waiting out front with a newspaper tucked under one arm and a cream-colored messenger bag slung across his chest.

“Coffee first,” he had said by way of an introduction, so Harry had ordered himself an espresso and a croissant. Malfoy had ordered something that came in a tall clear glass and was overflowing with whipped cream. Thankfully he had read the front page of his newspaper and ignored the looks Harry kept sending his cream covered lips. 

Harry scowled at his tiny espresso cup and waited for Malfoy to finish and somehow acknowledge him, preferably once the other man decided to remove his tongue from the roof of his mouth. Even Malfoy’s lost-in-very-important-thought look required drawing attention to an orifice Harry would rather ignore on a man he didn’t particularly like.

Eventually Malfoy’s lips snapped shut with his paper and he was gesturing for Harry to pay the bill already so they could take the Métro across the city.

Very briefly Harry considered arguing over the tab, but decided it wasn’t worth it and instead followed Malfoy through the city, down the stairs to the Métro and onto the crowded train. A few quid was definitely worth having someone else navigate the tricky underground system that Harry hadn’t had the heart to brave quite yet. 

The newspaper came out again once the train began moving, as did Malfoy’s tongue-to-teeth habit. Somehow the other man managed both feats all while standing upright on the moving train, one arm slung around a strategically placed pole to help maintain balance. Harry claimed a plastic seat as quickly as possible and instantly preferred the cramped form of travel to floo. 

Eventually they hopped off the Métro and caught a bus to take them the remainder of the way up the steep hill. However, the bus could only take them so far, so the last ten minutes of the journey were spent climbing up steep stairs and alleyways after Malfoy as Harry did his best to disguise how unfit he’d become. 

“Was there a reason we couldn’t just talk at that café?” asked Harry once he’d hoped he’d gained control of his breath enough to not sound winded.

Malfoy gave him a look that made him think he had not been so successful in his efforts, and which somehow also said the familiar, ‘Don’t be stupid, Potter.’

Harry rolled his eyes, but continued to follow the other man through the suddenly thickening throng of people. The passed street magicians, and numerous shops that would have otherwise drawn Harry's attention, but Malfoy passed them all by with a purposeful single mindedness that Harry felt inclined to mimic.

It turned out that the reason they couldn’t just speak at the café in the city was that the view was spectacular. Malfoy allowed Harry to stare out at the expanse of the city for a full two minutes before he became restless and steered them both back towards the bustle of the hilltop village. Harry was led to yet another café and pushed into one of the increasingly familiar too-tiny metal seats before Malfoy spoke again.

“Don’t encourage him, Potter,” he was instructed in clipped tones as Malfoy accepted their menus from the bored looking waiter.

Harry had been about to ask what on earth Malfoy meant when one of the artists broke away from the crowd and gestured to them both with the clear purpose of drawing their picture. Harry stared at the man for a full-horrified minute before he hurriedly shook his head. The artist shrugged and moved on to the next table.

“You don’t want to commemorate the moment, Potter? I’m offended,” said Malfoy as he looked over the menu.

Harry tried to think of a comeback, but really this whole experience was already too ridiculous for words, so he just reached for a menu that was thankfully in both English and French. 

They ordered, Harry a salad, and Malfoy a baguette, Harry a lemonade, and Malfoy another coffee. Then they sat in what Harry felt should be an awkward silence, but somehow wasn’t. Malfoy pulled out his newspaper, presumably to finish the last few pages he had left after their first coffee, the Métro, and the bus, while Harry took in the view. He couldn’t see the cityscape anymore, but the top of Montmartre was not lacking in interesting displays. What looked like dozens of artists had set up their easels and were either painting or drawing passer byers with thick charcoal pieces. Some people posed for caricatures, others looked over the artist’s other wares. A man on stilts was circulating through the crowd, and there was a clown leaning against a nearby food stall smoking a cigarette and chatting with a man with a professional looking camera slung around his neck. 

It was a ridiculous place, Harry had concluded by the time their food and drink had arrived, but he loved it instantly. 

“It reminds me of the Wizarding world,” Malfoy said after he’d pulled the tomato from his baguette and popped it into his mouth. 

“It’s not though is it?” asked Harry. Nothing about the place was magical in a wands-and-wizards sort of a way. Maybe there was another type of magic going on, but it wasn’t one Harry had seen before.

Malfoy was shaking his head. “I didn’t think you’d be any more interested in going to the Wizarding quarter any more than I would be. Not if you’re hanging around in the 14th Adrionessment.”

“I’ve a flat there now,” Harry wasn’t entirely sure why he said it, but suddenly it was out there.

“Where about?” asked Malfoy in a vaguely, passively interested sort of way. He was looking out into the artists, watching as a man in an offset hat drew a picture of a young Asian girl in twin plaits.

“Right near your shop actually.” Harry had realized it only this morning when he had been contemplating Malfoy’s business card and realized that it was the address of the florist shop he regularly passed on his walks to the Eiffel Tower.

Malfoy did not seem surprised by this. “Tried to pick a place that was the furthest from Wizarding Paris without being in the suburbs?” he asked.

Harry blinked in surprise. “Yeah, actually, how’d you know?”

“Besides the shop being there, I live around there too, and so do about a dozen other witches and wizards I know,” he looked away from the artist he’d been watching and gave Harry a mocking smile. “Turns out we’re not very original in our escape.”

Harry hummed in response and looked away. There didn’t seem to be much he could say to that.

“Why Paris then?” asked Draco after a few moments.

At first Harry thought through a number of answers he had given to others. When he’d quit, he’d told his boss he might like to work at the French Ministry for a bit. After the divorce hearing he’d told Ginny that he just needed to get out of England. To the few people he could call friends by the time he’d left, he’d lied that he had always been somewhat of a Francophile. All of these things could have been true, and might have been at one point in his life, but they weren’t the real reason.

“Just after I’d finished my training the Ministry sent me on this publicity tour to improve diplomatic or international relations, or some such rot. Two-dozen cities over two months. I was in Cape Town, Jerusalem, Washington D.C., Tokyo, Sydney, and then I was here, in Paris. The Ministry saved it for last. I think because it was so close to home. By the time I got here I was so tired of traveling, of being the Harry Potter the Ministry wanted me to be.

“This isn’t the prettiest city I’ve been to. It isn’t the friendliest, or the most interesting, and I don’t speak the language so it’s certainly not the most inviting for a man like me. But when I got here, no one gave two shits about me at all. They had this gala in my honor, and half the invitees didn’t show. My liaison with the French Ministry hated me, and I’m pretty sure she was spitting in my coffee. And every time I showed up for work in the morning, security made me provide two forms of identification.”

He paused just long enough for Malfoy to ask, “You like Paris, because Paris doesn’t like you?”

The smile he felt on his own face was a bit of a surprise, but he couldn’t help it. Malfoy had provided the words better than he had been able to since he had thought up this crazy move. “Pretty much, yeah. I wanted to start over, and to be left alone for a while.” Then he added, “mostly alone,” in case Malfoy took offense. “Paris seemed like a decent choice. No one is going to follow me home, or ask me for my autograph, or an interview.” There were a million other little things that seemed to make sense, but he’d felt he’d said enough so he just shrugged in closing.

When he looked over it was to find Malfoy toying absently with his fork, pushing it against the rocket that had garnished his meal.

“And you?” asked Harry. “Why Paris?”

“I spoke French.”

He waited for an explanation. When none came, he huffed in irritation. “Damn it, Malfoy.”

“Alright, fine.” His tone was mild, but Harry could still see Malfoy rolling his eyes. “I spoke French, and someone offered me a free place to live and since your Ministry,” he shot Harry a suspicious look. “Saw fit to strip me of my inheritance, and all of my money, free, seemed like a pretty easy decision for me.”

That didn’t make sense.  
Harry frowned. “The Ministry took your father’s money first of all, not yours, and they gave you enough to make a proper start of it.”

“Oh,” replied Draco with mock surprise, but the anger in his eyes was very real. “Did they? I’m so sorry to argue with you Mr. Auror Potter, sir, because clearly you know everything.”

There was a retort bubbling angrily in the back of Harry’s throat, but he was pretty sure if he picked an argument Malfoy would leave him up on this hill, and he wasn’t sure he could navigate the Métro on his own.

“Fine,” he managed. “Then what did they give you?”

Another arch of the eyebrow. It was always the one above Malfoy’s right eye. For some reason Harry wondered if Malfoy had such control over the one above his left.

Harry sighed when it was clearly Malfoy had no intention of continuing without some concession on his behalf. “Right, I’ll keep my mouth shut, but I really want to know. What did they give you when you left England?”

“When I was exiled from England,” corrected Malfoy with a sharp hiss. 

“Right that,” said Harry. He was starting to feel vaguely uncomfortable, and guilty for some reason.

“About three hundred Euros.”

It took Harry a moment to think. “But that’s—”

“Not even enough for a deposit on a flat?” finished Malfoy. “Exactly. It was enough cash for a train ticket from London to Paris, enough to buy myself a hotel for a weekend, and enough to get me drunker than I’ve ever been in my life. And that’s it.”

He needed time to think about that. Later though, when Malfoy wasn’t looking at him as it was somehow his fault.

“Oh, fuck you, Potter. It wasn’t your fault.”

Harry’s first thought was—

“And no I’m not a Legillimens, Christ. It’s written all over your face.”

Now Harry just felt sheepish. 

“You do realize that every little thing that happened before, after, and during the war was not entirely your fault, right? But if you do insist on blaming yourself, I have a list of things that are, in fact, related to you.”

“Such as?” asked Harry, taking the bait, even though he knew it was a diversionary tactic. However, he had no desire to continue exploring their previous topic, at least not without further contemplation. Perhaps with something stronger to drink than rapidly cooling coffee.

Malfoy’s lips twisted in pleasure. Apparently he still enjoyed tormenting him. “Let’s see, it was your fault I got my first detention.”

“Malfoy, you followed me out to Hagrid’s hut. You got detention for being out after curfew, same as I did.”

“No. You got detention for being out after curfew and consorting with a man with an illegal dragon. I received a detention because your head of house had it out for Slytherin.”

Harry actually felt his jaw drop. “You’ve got to be kidding. My head of house had it out for your house? Don’t you think that’s a bit, y’know, pot calling the kettle black and all that?”

“Snape was perfectly reasonable.” Malfoy sniffed. “It wasn’t his fault your lot couldn’t follow the rules.”

The git actually looked like he was enjoying himself. Harry narrowed his eyes. “My lot knew the rules just fine, it was your lot that was always breaking them.”

Malfoy barked out a half sigh-half laugh. “Slytherin’s don’t break rules, they interpret them.”

“Yeah to their own advantage,” quipped Harry, well aware they were only skimming the surface of a deeper conversation he wasn’t keen to have.

“Exactly,” said Malfoy smugly.

“That wasn’t a compliment,” said Harry.

“Well, I intend to interpret it as such,” said Malfoy.

Too many years had passed since Harry had had a risk-free argument. The past ten years had been filled with plenty of arguments with his children and his wife, but very little banter. With his wife he’d rarely had the option to defend his own cause and had merely shut up when he’d been told to. With the children, whenever he felt he wasn’t on solid ground anymore he simply told them a white lie, or gave them a daddy-knows-best kind of line. During desperate times he was even known to provide a distraction in the guise of a sweetie or a shiny object. 

Harry wondered if Malfoy still had a sweet tooth. “What else is my fault?” he asked instead.

“I’m pretty sure it’s your fault that Moody turned me into a ferret.”

It was incredibly rude and it caused Malfoy to turn bright red and scrunch up his face like an angry dog, but Harry couldn’t help it. He’d completely forgotten the memory of the amazing bouncing ferret and burst out laughing. The couple at the next table eyed him uneasily.

“Alright, alright,” said Harry, wiping tears from his eyes. “Sorry! But you know that wasn’t actually Moody, that was a Death Eater under a Polyjuice? So technically you were turned into a ferret by someone from your own side.”

Malfoy was still bright red, and his face was still all wrinkled, but this news was apparently enough for him to lean forward in interest and rest one hand on Harry’s. It was instantly drawn away of course, but he’d done it all the same. “What do you mean, Moody was a Death Eater?”

“The entire year the real Moody was locked in a trunk in his office. He never taught a single lesson,” said Harry. His hand was tingling.

“Merde. No wonder they never told the parents, the Governors would have had a field day with that information. I can’t believe the best Defense teacher we ever had was a Death Eater. Merde.”

Harry nodded in understanding and they shared a brief moment of commiseration for the standards of their education. 

“Remus was definitely second though,” remembered Harry. He felt guilty for not thinking of it before.

“The werewolf? Then Snape would be next, which would mean the only decent Defense teachers we’ve had are in order: a Death Eater, a werewolf, and another Death Eater,” said Malfoy.

“Yeah, but only one of them tried to kill me,” said Harry. “So I think those are pretty good odds.”

Malfoy rolled his eyes and reached for his coffee as if just remembering its presence. He took a sip and made a face; it must have gone cold. “One out of three is not good when the wager is your life.” There was a pause enough for Draco to order them both another espresso (Harry was starting to wonder just how much coffee one could have in one day) then, “So who turned me into a ferret?”

There was no resisting the twitch that hit Harry’s lips, but he did manage to not allow it to bloom into a full smile. He couldn’t believe how long he’d forgotten the memory. It could probably fuel his next Patronous. “Barty Crouch Junior.”

“Merde,” said Malfoy, shaking his head.

Their coffee came, and this time Harry added liberal amounts of sugar, following Malfoy’s lead. It tasted much better that way.

“So what does that mean anyway?” he asked.

“What?” asked Malfoy.

Harry shrugged. He didn’t really want to say it. He always embarrassed himself when he tried to pronounce French, or any other language for that matter. It was probably pretty stupid of him to think he could live in Paris. “Merde,” he said after he summoned up the courage. 

Malfoy didn’t seem to notice his unease. “Shit, Potter. It means, shit.” He stared at Harry in contemplation and took a deep sip of his espresso. “If you’re going to live here you should probably know a couple good curses. Quarreling is practically mandatory in Paris and you’re going to get yelled at sooner or later. So, repeat after me: Vouz avez plein de merde.”

It was gibberish, but Malfoy was looking at him, and Harry wasn’t a Gryffindor for no nothing so he took a deep breath and said what he hoped sounded vaguely like ‘vous avez plein de merde,’ but probably didn’t.

To his credit, Malfoy didn’t laugh, but he did smirk and he did make Harry say it three more times before he was satisfied.

“What’s that mean then?” asked Harry after the third round of embarrassment.

“It means ‘you are full of shit.’ Now, for the advanced learner: Ta mere suce des bites en enfer.”

Again Harry did his best to muddle through. “And that?” he asked once Malfoy seemed satisfied. This time it took closer to five tries.

“It means, your mother sucks cocks in hell.”

“Bloody hell, Malfoy,” said Harry as he looked around to see if anyone had taken offense to their exchange. “I would never say that to someone!”

Malfoy just shrugged and leaned against the back of his chair. “I’ve used that one at least three times this week alone. Bet you don’t make it through the month without it.”

“Can’t you at least teach me something useful?” asked Harry, deciding to ignore the ridiculousness of the situation where Draco Malfoy taught him French curse words over coffee.

“Alright another: Je veux t’enculer.”

This time Harry didn’t bother repeating Malfoy’s words and instead widened his eyes in question.

With a heavy sigh, Malfoy relented. “It means ‘I want to have sex with you,’ I promise you’re going to want to use that one at some point. Unless you’ve become celibate in your advanced age.”

Harry didn’t like the twisted smirk on Malfoy’s face. “What was it again?” he challenged. He repeated ‘je veux t’enculer’ five more times until he was sure he had it right.

“Now, ‘vous estes incroyable sir et je suis idiot,” said Malfoy.

“Are we back to cursing, you said something like idiot right?” Malfoy nodded and Harry repeated the phrase back.

Unfortunately when he finished Malfoy was grinning like the Cheshire cat. 

“Well, what did I say?”

Malfoy batted his eyelashes and continued grinning. “You told me that I am amazing and that you are but a fool.”

“Vous avez plein de merde,” said Harry.

A week later when Harry was halfway through painting his bedroom a deep royal blue a thought occurred to him. A few actual living potted plants on the balcony and maybe a vase or two of colorful flowers in the kitchen would really do wonders to brighten up the place. Then realizing his train of thought, Harry scowled at the half finished wall angrily and painted a large, bold, ‘NO’ in the remaining white space. He stared at it for a while, until he felt that the intention had sunk in and then painted over it.

He was at the Sunday market and a man was heaping tomatoes into a large bag, trying to bring the total up to five kilos. Harry waved his hands at him and tried to gesture using his fingers that he meant five tomatoes not five kilos, but the man didn’t seem to understand.

“Pas d’arret,” snapped a familiar voice. It was followed by an angry gesture. “Cinq tomates ne.”

A resulting argument between Malfoy and the attendant ensued, which resulted in Malfoy shouting something that had to be an insult and Harry holding a bag containing five large tomatoes.

“Thanks,” said Harry when they walked away.

“No worries,” said Malfoy. “Daniel always pulls that shit on foreigners. He speaks English.”

“No!” Harry’s head snapped back to see the shopkeeper trying to thrust a bucket of cherries at a clearly irritated passerby.

Malfoy snorted. “Not everyone is as saintly honest as you, Potter. Daniel is just trying to make a living.”

“I’m pretty sure you just called him something to do with being a whore and now you’re defending him?”

For some reason Malfoy looked confused. “Potter, this morning I told my landlady to suck my balls, why on earth would I be bothered by calling Daniel a cock-sucking, shop-keeping whore? It’s not like he took offense. It’s just business.”

Harry actually stopped walking at that then had to run to catch up to Malfoy who had kept going on without him. “You can’t just say things like that to people!”

“Why not?” said Malfoy with another eyebrow arch. It really was an art form. “I do it all the time.”

“Is that the way you talk to customers at your business?” asked Harry.

Malfoy shot him an annoyed look. “Of course not, but I work in the flower business, Potter. The only time I have reason to curse anyone out at work is when I’m on the phone with a bride trying to plan her own wedding. You would not believe what they demand a handcrafted bouquet of out of season amaryllis to cost. And really they call me worse things than I call them, so it all works out.”

It was time to give the issue up, Harry thought. It was obviously never going to make sense to him.

“Where are we going?” he asked when he realized they were leaving the market.

“I am going for lunch, and you are following me,” said Malfoy.

He was right. Harry had followed Malfoy without a thought. He stopped instantly at the realization, coming to a freeze just beside the fishmonger. The smell was unfortunate.

Malfoy sighed with exaggerated patience and motioned for him to continue. “Merde, Potter! You’re invited, obviously, or I would have told you to fuck off as well.”

“Lovely,” said Harry. “So you curse at people when they do what you want, and when they don’t?”

“Basically,” said Malfoy. Then he pushed against Harry’s side and guided him towards the nearby café. “Here. They do the best croque madame.”

“Everywhere does croque madame,” complained Harry. He was still feeling a bit embarrassed but he took his seat at the outdoor table, the same as Malfoy. It was one of the few things he knew about French cuisine. A croque monsieur was basically a cheese toastie with the cheese on the outside instead of on the inside, and a croque madame came with an egg on top. Harry had been in Paris for two months now and was still trying to figure out why either had any business costing over a fiver.

Malfoy, ignored the complaint and ordered two. Presumably one of them was for Harry, but it was never clarified.

“You’re going to have a rough time being a Parisian if you don’t learn any French,” said Malfoy.

Harry shrugged. “I can use a translation spell when I really need to.”

“Those never work properly, and they don’t last long.”

Both were good points. “And they give me headaches,” Harry added. “I’ll learn if I have to.”

Malfoy shot him a level look. “You have to.”

Harry rolled his eyes, but decided not to point out that the only person he’d had any type of conversation with since moving to this city already spoke English.

Like all French café’s, the tables faced outward towards the street, so that Harry and Malfoy sat side by side, instead of across from one another. It gave them a good view of the foot traffic, and allowed for excellent people watching while they talked. 

Occasionally, Malfoy would wave to someone as they passed, or shout out something in French that Harry tried to grasp with his limited understanding. He caught words like hello and goodbye easily enough, it was everything in between that was a muddle. 

If Harry had ever given any thought to actually having lunch with Draco Malfoy he wouldn’t have thought they had anything to talk about. However, the conversation flowed with surprising ease as they ate their croque madame. It was interspersed with a heavy dose of bickering, eye rolling and occasional French cursing, but it still flowed.

Eventually an older woman with blond hair piled atop her head caught Malfoy’s eye from the street and joined them at their table. She nodded at Harry and then started rattling off French at such a rapid rate that Harry felt his eyes glazing over. Malfoy kept up his side of the conversation easily enough, but eventually Harry grew bored and started playing with the sugar packets on the table.

The woman shot him a look and said something Harry didn’t understand. He gave her a sheepish smile in return.

Malfoy rolled his eyes and said something with the words “English” and “idiot” in it.

“Why didn’t you say so?” said the woman in perfectly clear English. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know that you did not understand, how rude of you, Draco!” she gave Malfoy a half-hearted push.

“He is rather, isn’t he?” said Harry, enjoying both the fact that he was now involved in the conversation, and turning one of Malfoy’s own friends against him.

“Absolutely,” said the woman. “How do you two know each other then?”

Harry exchanged a look with Malfoy. They hadn’t delved too deeply into their recent pasts during their conversation on Montmartre. He wasn’t sure if Malfoy had been entirely honest when he’d set himself up here. Harry certainly wouldn’t blame him for pretending to be something, or someone he wasn’t.

“School,” said Malfoy finally. Once the woman had bounced her gaze from Harry to Malfoy and back several times, waiting for an answer. “Boarding school, before L’Universite.”

Harry shot him a look “You went to university?”

This time Malfoy’s lips twisted in pleasure rather than annoyance. “Of course I did.”

“Git,” said Harry, because he couldn’t think of an appropriate insult when he was suitably impressed. “Is there much need for a degree in floristing?”

“First, floristing isn’t a word. It’s floristry, and you’d be surprised.”

“Draco,” the woman interrupted. “Your degree was in linguistics.”

Malfoy huffed. “Yes, but he didn’t know that,” he said with a shake of his head in Harry’s direction.

“Spend a lot of time talking to the flowers, do you, Malfoy?” snipped Harry. 

“Yeah, I’m training some devil’s snare for you as we speak, Potter. I’m trying to convince it to suffocate you in your sleep.”

“It’d take more than some devil's snare, Malfoy.”

“How about a lovely fanged geranium?”

“Neville gave me one for Christmas last year, rather tame don’t you think?”

“Venomous tentacula?”

“Please, the backroom of the Wheezes is full of them.”

There was a dainty clearing of the throat. Harry and Malfoy both turned to look at the woman sitting at their table. She was smiling as if she knew a secret they didn’t.

“Are you going to invite your friend to the party tomorrow night, Draco?” she asked once she was sure she had their attention.

Malfoy scowled at her and shot something off in French. 

“Because it would be rude,” the woman continued in English. Then she turned to Harry. “I’m sorry, but we haven’t been properly introduced, my name is Lauren Arret.”

“Harry Potter,” said Harry. Malfoy actually bit his lip to keep from saying anything. Harry understood the feeling, he was still fighting the initial burst of irritation he felt whenever he heard the other man's name.

“Lovely to meet you, Harry. Would you like to come to a party with me tomorrow night, since Draco has neglected to invite you himself?”

Harry chanced a look at Malfoy from the corner of his eye. The other man looked sullen, his arms were crossed across his chest and he was staring resolutely at the crumb-covered table. But he wasn’t raising any objections, and he wasn’t cursing either Harry or Lauren, so it must be all right. Resolved, Harry gave his best Saviour smile and said; “I’d love to, Lauren.” 

As with most social situations, Harry wasn’t very good at parties. He tended to gravitate towards kitchens, and usually drank too much since he always felt the need to have something to do with his hands. Malfoy and Lauren were both in attendance when Harry finally found the right address and figured out how to buzz the appropriate apartment from the street. Lauren met him at the door and guided Harry into the kitchen for a drink, but Malfoy hadn’t so much as glanced his way. He was far too preoccupied with his conversation partner.

It was the man from the first night Harry had seen Malfoy again, he was sure of it. And Malfoy was practically hanging off of him. It was disgusting. Not, Harry quickly told himself, because he minded or anything. It was mostly so terrible because he knew what a proud person Malfoy was, and to see him so debased was just wrong somehow. 

Harry took the opportunity to size up the man as he hadn’t that other night. He was tall, several inches taller than Malfoy, who was already taller than Harry. And he was sort of…dashing. Harry couldn’t think of another word to describe it. He moved easily, and confidently, and was clearly charming if the way the people around him were acting was any indication. And he had Malfoy eating out of the palm of his hand. Sometimes even literally, which was also disgusting.

“He is no good,” said Lauren. She’d been a good host, introducing Harry to all the other English speakers and making sure he wasn’t getting bored.

“Who?” tried Harry even though he knew it was in vain. He had hoped he’d been less transparent, but apparently he hadn’t.

Lauren didn’t even respond to the question. “He has been coming around with Draco for a few years now. Never stays long. Never does any good.”

For some reason Harry’s heart had sunk at the first mention of ‘years,’ though he did not want to question why. “What’s so bad about him? Malfoy seems pretty happy.”

“He’s right, you are a do-good idiot,” said Lauren as if in shock.

“Probably,” agreed Harry.

“His name is Lucas and—”

“What?” Harry did a double take. 

“His name is Lucas?” Lauren repeated slowly.

“Lucas?”

Lauren nodded.

Harry shivered all over. “That’s creepy.”

“Why?” asked Lauren, clearly not understanding. Perhaps she did not know as much about Malfoy as Harry had thought.

“Malfoy’s dad’s name is Lucius. It just sounds similar is all,” explained Harry. “Sort of creepy to hear.”

“Oh,” said Lauren and for a moment she stared off into nothingness. “That is very disturbing now that you mention it.” Lauren shook her head and continued. “What I was going to say is that he is no good because he’s married.”

Harry’s head whipped around fast enough to cause him to wince. “Married?” he repeated.

Lauren nodded. “With three kids, and he’s not the sort to leave his wife.”

A cold, heavy, well-deserved weight settled in Harry’s stomach. So, Lucas wasn’t the sort to leave his wife and three kids…

“He starts coming around every few months, takes Draco out for dinners and drinks, or on weekends away, and then he disappears without a word. No good.”

Harry was still stuck on the part about the wife and kids and wondering what that said about him.

“He likes you, you know.”

“He hates me,” said Harry in a reflex. Then he thought about it and changed his mind. “I mean, he used to hate me, now I think we’re too old for that. He tolerates me.”

“He likes you,” this time she repeated the words in a singsong sort of voice that his daughter would use.

“You don’t even know if I’m gay,” he said.

She gave him a look that clearly stated, ‘Are you kidding me?’

“You don’t even know if I’m interested.”

Not a muscle changed on her face.

Harry sighed in defeat.

It turned out that Harry hadn’t gotten any better at parties since the last one he’d attended. After Lauren had gravitated towards the other guests, he tried to circulate with the people he had been assured spoke English, but he had never been very good at small talk. As a result he polished off the bottle of red he’d brought all on his own, and started in on the gin and tonics that the young red headed woman was pouring in the kitchen. He drank two and tried not to think of Ginny. He also took several trips to the toilet, waiting in a short queue each time. 

Once, Malfoy’s paramour was standing in line in front of him.

“Hello,” said Harry, trying to be polite.

“Oui?” the man said as he turned around.

“Er, nothing,” explained Harry. “Just saying, hello. Y’know, hello!” He gave a little wave to illustrate his words.

The man’s forehead crinkled. Harry was annoyed to note that it did not make him look ugly in the least. “Anglais? Non, Français seulement.” Then he turned back around and faced the still closed toilet door.

Harry took a page out of his son’s book and stuck his tongue out at the other man’s back. It felt surprisingly good.

It was after midnight before Malfoy acknowledged his presence and even then he had only merited a brief nod as Malfoy was pulled out the door by his ‘no good,’ married, sometimes-boyfriend, Lucas. Harry was sure that Malfoy wouldn’t be returning to make further conversation this time. So he thanked a glassy eyed Lauren for the invitation, left his half-empty drink in the kitchen, and went home promising himself to stay as far away from Malfoy as possible.

His Malfoy-less existence only lasted three days, before he ran into the blond while walking down the street. Malfoy grabbed his arm and pulled at Harry until he was walking the same way and led them towards the newsagents where Malfoy was apparently picking up a weeks worth of reading material. 

Then they picked up coffees and carried them in their paper sleeves to Malfoy’s shop where Harry sat behind the counter with Malfoy and pretended to be interested in Malfoy’s laments about the quality of the newest temporary exhibit in the Louvre. 

That was when Harry first realized that he and Malfoy were now sort of friends.

After that there were many such mornings when Harry either purposefully or accidentally ran into Malfoy on the street and followed him back to the shop. Once he’d even persuaded Malfoy to join him for a sandwich in front of the Eiffel Tower. Malfoy had proclaimed the spot loud, and ridiculously cliched and touristic, but had stayed for a full hour anyway. 

There were no more trips to Montmartre, no more parties with Lauren. Just Harry and listening to Malfoy complain about whatever the topic of the day happened to be while he drank bad coffee and sat in uncomfortably stiff chairs. 

Sometimes Malfoy complained about Lucas. Sometimes he sang his praises.

Malfoy seemed to love the sound of his own voice, but he didn’t talk about anything concrete. He complained about the rising cost of taxes, but never mentioned his parents. He goaded Harry about his sexless life, but never asked about Ginny even though Harry had told him he was recently divorced. Their past was never brought up, the war was certainly never even alluded to. It was just the here and now, and Harry found it to be surprisingly refreshing. 

“You need to get your cock sucked, Potter,” Malfoy started off as he took a deep sip from his takeaway coffee. 

Harry hummed in response. It wasn’t the first time Malfoy had said as much. It had been eight months since he’d last slept with a man, and over a year since he’d last slept with Ginny so Malfoy was not wrong.

“Fuck, I can’t wait for this weekend.” It was the usual type of conversational segue for Malfoy. He tended to jump from topic to topic without cause.

Harry took the bait and tried not to think about how Malfoy’s two previous comments were related. “Why’s that?” he asked. Now he was trying not to pay attention to the way Malfoy’s tongue was once again in evidence, pressed against the top layer of his teeth. 

The tongue retreated into his mouth and Malfoy smiled widely. “I’m celebrating my birthday with Lucas, he’s taking me to Giverny for the weekend.”

As with every other time Lucas’ name was brought up, Harry chose not to comment, Malfoy chose not to notice and went into detail about what he expected out of his, ‘Pamper me, because it’s my birthday’ weekend.

That Saturday, while Malfoy was in Giverny, Harry went to a gay bar Malfoy had once talked about. He gave the name to a cab driver and paid the cover fee at the door. He’d worn his tightest jeans and what he hoped was his most flattering button down. 

It had been a long time since he’d had to actively try to pull. When he’d first started seeing men he’d snuck into Muggle London before he realized there were a number of discreet wizards willing to do anything for ‘the Chosen One.’ 

Bars were easier than parties. At parties he felt the need to prove that he was a productive member of society, by making witty and hopefully intellectual conversational. At bars he only needed to prove he was interested in moving this to a secondary location. 

Thankfully this bar was a mixing pot of cultural backgrounds and languages. He talked to a few men who spoke various proficiencies of English and drank enough to feel tipsy before he was approached by anyone of interest. He accepted the shot he was handed before he took in what was on offer.

The boy, and yes he was definitely young enough to still be called a boy by Harry, bit his lip and fluttered his lashes. It looked like the sort of move that had been practiced in front of a mirror.

Ah, youth, Harry thought. Then he slammed back the shot of tequila he’d just been given and smiled back.

“Another?” the boy asked. He looked Spanish rather than French and was going for a wide-eyed innocent look now.

Harry nodded and held his shot glass out for a refill.

“Chaser?” said the boy as he reached for the bowl of limes. He picked one up between his thumb and forefinger and then pressed it against the side of his own neck.

Harry watched the juice trickle against the dark skin and drip into the hollow at the boy’s throat. He licked his lips at the sight and raised his glass in a toast. “Je veux t’enculer,” he said.

Harry lay in bed and stared at the unfamiliar ceiling. This one was tiled, but many of the white tiles had faded to beige, or had been cracked or damaged. He was too old to be waking up to ceilings like this one, too old to be lying in a stranger’s bed, and definitely too old to be having his cock sucked by the boy beneath the covers.

But damn if it didn’t feel good.

The blankets around his waist shifted above the weight that rested between Harry’s splayed knees. He watched the mound rise and fall and pictured what was happening beneath it until he remembered through the lust filled haze that he could simply remove the blankets and see for himself.

The boy’s eyes locked onto him the moment they were revealed, and Harry was rewarded with a particularly hard suck. He moaned and thrust his hips up, wanting to get deeper into that wonderfully, wet mouth.

A hand that was almost femine in its delicacy slid down Harry’s torso to cup and massage his sac. At the same time the boy lowered his mouth until it was pressed around the base of Harry’s cock. He could feel the spongy tip of his crown being squeezed into the boy’s throat. Then he swallowed. Hard. Fuck, if that wasn’t amazing, Harry thought as he came. Who cared how old the mouth on him was if it could do tricks like that?

The boy suckled and licked while Harry panted and pulled himself back under control. Then just as Harry was starting to feel overly sensitive the boy withdrew and settled back on his knees. His smile was positively smug. Clearly, he was aware of his own talents.

“Good, yes?” said the boy with that self-satisfied smile.

Harry laughed. Good was an understatement. He reached a hand up to pull the boy’s head down and rewarded him with a lazy kiss. “Good, yes,” he said once the boy pulled away. “Muy bueno.”

The boy chuckled and jumped out of bed with a nimbleness that Harry envied. He wasn’t quite old enough for his joints to pop yet, but he certainly wasn’t bouncing about as he had ten years ago. And his muscles protested the movement of slinging his legs out of bed after the particular acrobatics of the night before.

Remaining naked, the boy trounced out of the room to the kitchen. Harry could hear the now familiar sound of espresso being made on a hob and what also sounded like eggs frying in a pan.

With a few stretches Harry made his way to the toilet to clean himself up. A few spells helped remove the lingering stench of sweat and sex, and the taste of stale liquor from his breath. Living among Muggles was one thing, giving up the convenience magic completely was another thing entirely.

By the time he found his way to the cramped kitchen, the boy had a plate set out for him containing two fried eggs and a piece of toast. The compulsory espresso cup sat to the side of the plate.

Upon seeing him, the boy smiled, flashing a row of teeth that were impossibly white against dark brown skin. The boy gestured to the food and rattled off something in Spanish, but Harry understood the meaning well enough.

“You name?” the boy said after they’d pushed away their plates.

There was the sharp feeling of panic, an echo from his days before the divorce when he’d used an alias, glamour, or polyjuice. But this boy was a Muggle, and even if he weren’t, no one cared about Harry Potter in Paris.

So he told the boy his name and found out that the energetic lad who’d ridden his cock last night like a sous chef was named Sergio.

This turned out to be the extent of their communication skills as Sergio only spoke a few bits and pieces of English, and Harry only knew about the same in either Spanish or French. But still, Harry left Sergio’s little flat with a bounce in his step and a smile on his face.

A smile which faded as he walked past Malfoy’s shop and saw the deep scowl the other man was giving the geranium he was watering. 

“It didn’t bite you did it?” asked Harry.

Malfoy jumped and nearly turned the hose on Harry in his surprise. He didn’t look any more pleased with Harry than he did with the geranium.

“No,” he snapped. “It’s just the regular sort of geranium. The regular sort of geranium that has a regular sort of life, and regularly fucking stands me up without regularly fucking calling.”

Harry rocked back on his heels and pushed his hands into his pockets. Sergio had carefully written out his mobile number on a piece of paper and slipped it into his pocket before Harry had left. When Harry felt the folded wad on his fingers, he immediately pulled his hands out again. “I am going to guess that we aren’t just talking about a geranium then?”

The look on Malfoy’s face was a familiar one to Harry. It was the look that Malfoy had regularly given Harry when they were at Hogwarts. Harry rather thought it meant something like, ‘What business do you have being in my esteemed company you miserable piece of filth.’ Instead Malfoy said, “Does it sound like I’m talking about a fucking geranium, Potter?”

In what Harry felt was a wise and diplomatic move, he decided not to inform Malfoy that he shouldn’t use the name ‘geranium’ if he didn’t mean to talk about them. “Right. What’s up?”

But Malfoy’s eyes had narrowed as he took in Harry’s tighter than normal clothes. “Where’re you coming from Potter? I thought your flat was that way?” He jerked his head in the direction that Harry had been walking to and where indeed his flat was located.

Harry’s mouth felt very dry. He hadn’t thought Malfoy was in town this weekend so he hadn’t given a second thought to walking past the shop. It was simply the shorter route from Sergio’s to his own flat. Would Malfoy believe that he’d fancied an early morning walk? Or that he’d had some sort of business meeting earlier that morning and was just coming back from the Métro? But no, Malfoy knew the Métro confused him, he’d never buy that one. “Out,” he said, which might have been the worst thing to say based on the look Malfoy turned on him in return.

“Out,” repeated Malfoy, looking appropriately skeptical. Then he snorted, threw down the still running hosepipe and stomped back into his corner shop.

After following the hosepipe to the connector and making sure the water was off Harry hurried to follow him.

Malfoy was slumped dramatically across the glass countertop at the till. “You know things are bad when Harry bloody Potter is getting more action than you are,” he mumbled into his arms loud enough for the words to have been intended to be overheard.

There didn’t seem to be much sense in pointing out that up until last night Harry hadn’t slept with anyone for months, but he didn’t think it would help matters. “Is that sewn on a pillow somewhere?” he asked instead.

“Yes,” said Malfoy, still speaking into the crocks of his arms where they crossed beneath his head.

“I know you aren’t upset over sex, Malfoy, or who is or isn’t having it,” snapped Harry, getting a little annoyed. He’d seen the other man parade about countless times with secret little smiles on his face in response to thoughts that Harry ‘just wouldn’t understand’ or messages sent to his mobile at inappropriate moments. 

With a loud sigh to belay what an effort on his part the action was, Malfoy pulled his body up off the counter. “I know. I’m not talking about sex, Potter,” for some reason Harry’s name came out sounding exactly like ‘idiot.’ “Lucas stood me up on Friday. And this was the second time this week. And it was my birthday. And he turned off his phone. And he hasn’t responded to any of my messages.”

Morbid curiosity forced him to ask it. “How many messages did you send?”

Malfoy shrugged in a way that made Harry think it was an embarrassing amount.

The bell above the door tinkled, and they drew apart as a customer walked in and asked Malfoy to help her pick out an orchid. Harry leaned against the counter and watched as Malfoy took on an air of kind professionalism. All traces of the sulky, drama queen were pushed aside until the woman had her new purchase in hand and was out the door again. Then with a sort of shiver that seemed to affect his full body, Malfoy slumped back into his chair. His bottom lip swelled out, his brow wrinkled, and he pulled his arms over his chest. 

“I’m very cross,” he said.

It all made Harry want to laugh and pull the blond against his chest and soothe him like a petulant child. “Why are you with him if he makes you so cross then?” he asked. It was the first time Harry had said as much, but he had been given strength of will by his recent number of orgasms. 

Malfoy’s mouth opened, but no words came forth. He bit his lips together again and turned away in thought. “I’m not that cross,” he said after a moment of consideration.

Taking a trick out of Malfoy’s book, Harry arched an eyebrow. “Right,” he said.

“Tell me where you’re coming from then,” Malfoy said after several further moments of huffing and puffing angrily. 

Harry shrugged and shifted uncomfortably. He was still standing, hoping to only stay long enough to somehow make Malfoy feel better before he could make his escape. He was in desperate need of a real shower and he didn’t much like the idea of being around Malfoy after leaving another man’s company.

“Distract me,” snapped Malfoy.

“Just nowhere,” Harry lied.

“Right, with just no one, I suspect.”

Harry shrugged and stared at a display of lilies during the resulting silence.

“Was it any good?”

At this Harry wrinkled his nose. Yes it was good but, “He tried to unbutton my trousers with his teeth.” 

Malfoy laughed. “Dear god, Potter. He wasn’t a virgin was he?”

No, definitely not, thought Harry, just far too young for him. “I think I’m too old for one night stands.” He said instead.

But Malfoy wasn’t listening, he was on his mobile again, pounding at the touch screen and likely sending another unnecessary message. Harry hopped he was telling Lucas to fuck off, but he rather doubted it. 

“Right,” Harry said when Malfoy didn’t look up for several minutes. “I’ll just be going then. Happy birthday, Malfoy.”

Malfoy grunted in response, and continued scrolling through his phone. Harry left without a goodbye. 

The children came to visit two weeks later. He had them for a glorious six weeks before they’d be returned to their mother. James was already at Hogwarts, but September would be Albus’ first year and his youngest son could hardly stop talking about what things would be like. 

There had been a day or two of discomfort when they’d first arrived by portkey. He hadn’t seen them since that last strained Christmas, where there had been an uncomfortable level of honesty about Harry’s actions amongst the Potter and Weasley families. He was sure little Lily didn’t fully understand what being gay entailed, but even she hadn’t been spared the information that her father had chosen to cheat on his long-time wife with an embarrassing number of men.

Thankfully none of his children mentioned his most recent shame, though sometimes James stared at him with narrowed, blame filled eyes. His oldest son had been the most upset over the declaration that his parents were getting a divorce. Lily and Albus had both cried at the news, but had quickly adjusted to the idea living without their father. James had shouted at Harry for hours before collapsing into bed and letting his father rock him to a tear-induced sleep. 

Since the divorce their relationship had healed somewhat, through short visits and long floo conversations. Since Harry had moved to Paris in the early spring, the floo conversations had stopped, but he’d exchanged numerous letters with his sprog and sent a mobile phone to Ginny so that he could talk to his children on the rotary in his new flat. He called everyday, but Lily was the only one who actually wanted to talk so often.  
They liked the new flat, which made Harry happy. James and Albus shared a room without a fuss, and Lily demanded her bedroom to be painted pink. They picked up the paint after their third day in Paris, and spent a weekend eating pizza out of cardboard boxes, listening to the Wizarding wireless that James had brought, and painting Lily’s new room. 

He took them to the Louvre, and to Montmartre, and to Notre Dame, and to walk along the Seine. They walked across the lover’s bridge eating ice cream and Lily insisted that they have a lock. Harry purchased one from a street vendor and wrote out their four names carefully on one side. Lily added a heart. James and Albus rolled their eyes at one another, but helped Lily link the lock on the chain link fence and James took great joy in throwing the key into the Seine as hard as he could.

It felt like a holiday and for the first time since he’d arrived Harry felt good with how his life had turned out. His children still loved him, and he was happy.

“If you touch anything then I’ll be forced to cut off your hands and feed them to my pet crocodile.”

The boys ignored the threat and wandered off to see if there was anything interesting in the back room, like there was at the Wheezes, but Lily looked up at Harry with wide, watery eyes.

Harry sighed and shook his head. “There’s no crocodile, sweetheart.” Once she scampered off to look at the flowers Harry shot Malfoy a dirty look. “Thanks. Now she’s going to have nightmares about being eaten by an crocodile.”

Malfoy shrugged and continued rifling through his newspaper. “Not my problem, is it?”

“Obviously not,” Harry snapped harsher than he had intended. Malfoy gave him a surprised look, but returned to his reading quickly enough.

Lily skipped up several minutes later with a bouquet she had made on her own. It contained at least a dozen different types of flowers and barely fit in her tiny hand. Malfoy tossed aside his newspaper and proceeded to advise Lily on how to arrange her collection to the best aesthetic. Several pink ribbons were included in the ordeal and Malfoy was instantly forgiven in Harry’s mind.

He left the two to discuss the merits of adding baby’s breath to the mixture in favor of searching out his far too quiet sons. He found them in the supply room, James having managed to entirely wrap his younger brother in bubble wrap. Harry helped cut Albus free and dragged them back into the main room to apologize to Malfoy for wasting his materials. 

Malfoy took the apology with a pinched look on his face, Lily sat beside him in Harry’s usual spot, looking like a child beauty queen, proudly holding her winning bouquet. 

“Hmm,” he hummed when James and Albus were finished. He fished a box of biscuits out from under his desk and tossed them to the boys. “Save my waistline and waste the rest of these then will you?”

The summer went by faster than Harry wanted it too. Every day he was aware he was losing time with his children. They filled July with jaunts to the French countryside, interspersed with lazing around Harry’s flat or Malfoy’s flower shop. Lily’s collection of bouquets grew until Harry’s entire flat began to resemble a florist shop itself, and James and Albus were routinely roped into acting Junior Associates, as Malfoy liked to call them. Harry rather felt that Malfoy was just taking advantage of available child labor, but Malfoy steadfastedly assured him he was teaching valuable business skills.

Before he was ready, Harry was sitting in Albus’ favorite Thai restaurant, celebrating his birthday and his children’s last night in Paris. They had a portkey to catch tomorrow afternoon and he wouldn’t see them again until September 1st when he would make the trek to London to put James and Albus on the train. He was celebrating with all three of his children, but Malfoy had refused the invitation that Lily had extended. Apparently he had a date with his boyfriend.

At the time Lily had given Malfoy a confused look. Later she’d pulled Harry aside and explained that she thought Malfoy was Harry’s boyfriend.

“Yeah, so did I,” added Albus as he flicked through channels on Harry’s telly. He’d spent the whole summer determined to find an English speaking show and had yet to be successful. 

James hummed in a distracted way that Harry took to mean ‘me too, but my comic is more interesting than your love life, thanks dad.’

Harry felt his eyes watering up and hugged Lily to his chest, touched by his children’s easy acceptance.

“I like Mr. Draco,” continued Lily.

“Yeah, so do I,” said Albus.

James just grunted.

The flat was emptier than ever after the children left. Harry broke down and adopted a cat. She was 6 years old, a bit on the round side, and had black fur that stuck to Harry’s clothes. She woke him up in the mornings by sitting on Harry’s pillow and smacking him in the face with her tail. Harry took this to mean ‘I demand you feed me this instant you lazy man.’ Harry named her Pickles.

Malfoy eyed the new additions to Harry’s wardrobe with distaste, but did not comment.

Sergio pouted perfectly. His lips were plump and swollen looking, and they were pressed out and together. His eyes were closed, adding to the look of pure concentration on his young face.

Harry’s own lips and eyes were open. One set panting, the other drinking in the sight of the slim, brown boy bouncing up and down on his cock. He reached out and pinched a pebbled nipple just to see the boy’s lips separate for a moan.

The moan elongated into a string of Spanish profanity. Harry still wasn’t sure what most of it meant, but he was pretty sure that ‘duro’ meant harder and he knew ‘rapido’ meant faster. When he started hearing those words with increasing volume and repetition Harry grasped Sergio around the waist, flipped their positions and bore him down into the mattress.

With great enthusiasm Harry thrust into the tight heat beneath him. Sergio gave out a long whine and hooked his legs over Harry’s shoulders, angling his arse for deeper penetration. Harry held onto the slim hips and pulled them towards his body.

It felt fucking amazing and all Harry wanted to do was coat the boy in come, but his orgasm still eluded him. There was something wrong with the situation. Sergio’s was young and gorgeous, and his arse was amazing, but another face kept floating through his mind.

Angry with himself, Harry grabbed Sergio’s legs and pushed them until the boy was bent almost double. He thrust with a renewed effort, desperate to find his finish and closed his eyes. Instead of the rushed Spanish, he imagined drawing criticisms, and halting curses. He imagined that the soft skin beneath his hands was as pale as milk, and marred by the occasional scar. Draco would have them, he knew. He’d still have the ones on his torso that Harry had given him, and probably a great deal more from his time during the war.

And Draco wouldn’t allow himself to be used so carelessly, Harry thought. At least not by Harry. With Harry, he’d put up a token struggle, he’d tease and torment, and try and make Harry come before he was ready, then make fun of him for it. He might not even bottom for Harry, he might say something dirty in a superior tone like ‘Malfoy’s do not take it up the arse, Potter’ and make it sound like gospel. 

It was hard to imagine that the body beneath him was Draco's when everything about it was wrong. But then Sergio squeezed the muscles in his arse around his cock. The elusive orgasm that tore out of him was almost painful. It left him panting and near shaking with irritation and slumped over a body that was distinctly lacking in sharp angels.

And Harry was left with the realization that he wasn’t just maybe attracted to his sort of friend Malfoy. No, he wanted Draco.

It was hard to look the other man in the eye after that. He wished he had the strength to stop coming by Malfoy’s shop at all. 

He’d been in Paris for over six months now and though it had been a rough start, he had made some other friends. There was Kate, the American expat who brought her sixth month old daughter to the park in front of the Eiffel Tower and who sometimes joined Harry for lunch. There was Craig and Pierre, the long time couple he had met one night at a gay bar. He knew the names of all the waiters at his Albus’ favorite Thai restaurant, and there was the group of artists and hippies Harry went for coffee with after yoga class. He’d even struck up an unlikely friendship with Marie, a woman he’d met at Lauren’s party long ago, who he ran into one day in the supermarket and who liked to meet in coffee shops and traded French lessons for English ones.

But still he found himself sitting with Malfoy at least twice a week, listening to him rattle on about whatever thought floated through his head. 

“Alright, enough, Potter, what the hell has crawled up your arse and died?”

By now Harry was used to Malfoy’s particular brand of bluntness. “I’ve just been thinking,” he said. “That I’m ready to be in a relationship again.”

The right brow was arched already. “Just decided that did you?”

Harry nodded seriously. “It’ll be a year since the divorce, and it’s not like Ginny and I were serious about each other for some time before that.” 

He and Malfoy had never spoken of Harry’s relationship with Ginny past the information that they had been married for a number of years and had decided to divorce. Malfoy had never even let on whether or not he knew why he and Ginny had divorced in the first place.

“And I’m no good at casual dating,” Harry admitted. He’d seen Sergio a half dozen times and had moments with a few others he’d met at the bars, but so far he hadn’t met anyone else he was remotely interested in.

Malfoy remained conspicuously silent.

“I think I want to try and pursue something—someone new. Have a proper go at a real relationship. An honest one.”

“Potter don’t,” Malfoy warned.

Harry looked at him. Malfoy’s tongue was poking into his cheek now, he could see the bulge of it beneath his skin. He was probably biting it, Harry realized. 

“Aren’t you tired of this?” asked Harry, gesturing to the empty shop, but meaning so much more than that.

“This is all that there is,” snapped Malfoy. He was sitting very, very still.

Harry smiled at Malfoy sadly. “It doesn’t have to be.”

Malfoy deflated. Slightly. “I’m with someone.”

At least he was acknowledging that he understood what Harry was talking about. 

“Someone who’s married already.”

Malfoy’s eyes sharpened. He’d never told Harry that, and Harry had never let on that he knew. Apparently Malfoy liked to pretend that Lucas was solely devoted to him, despite the fact that Harry had only ever seen them together a handful of times, (thankfully).

“So?” snapped Malfoy. His arms were crossed over his chest now.

“So, don’t you want more than that?” asked Harry. 

For a brief moment he thought Malfoy was leaning into him, perhaps giving in, but then Harry felt the sharp point of a wand pressed against his chest. 

In all the time he’d spent with Malfoy over the past few months, he’d never once seen the other man’s wand. He hadn’t been sure Malfoy even had one anymore. Harry sucked in his breath through his teeth and nodded in understanding.

“Right,” he said as he hopped off what he had come to think of as his stool. “See you around, Malfoy.”

Harry made it all the way to the door before hearing one last, “See you, Potter.” He didn’t turn around.

At least he had tried, Harry told himself in the days that followed while he tried to adjust to a Malfoy-less world. It would have been worse to string himself along just to enjoy the other man’s company when he knew he wanted more. 

“You look sad,” Kate said one day when she and Harry were sitting in the park enjoying the fruit salad she had brought for them. Harry was bouncing Kate’s little daughter Emily in his lap and thinking about when Lily was that small. He’d seen her only yesterday at Kings Cross, had held her in his arms as they waved James and Albus goodbye. He and Ginny had each taken one of Lily’s hands and walked her back to Ginny’s car and he had felt like a part of a proper family again.

He didn’t want to explain all of this to Kate. They were passing friends only, who met in the park on sunny days and talked about superficial things like their favorite wine, and what shoes Kate wanted to buy next time she went shopping. 

“I bet I can cheer you up,” she said when she failed to produce a reaction out of him.

Harry had to smile at that. “What?” 

“I’ve met someone.”

He gave her a level look. “Besides your husband you mean?”

She laughed. “Not for me, for you. I met him through my book club. An English book club, obviously. He’s American too, from New York City, very cosmopolitan, very attractive.”

Harry wasn’t sure if his type was cosmopolitan and attractive, and his first instinct was to say thanks by no thanks, but then he caught sight of a woman traipsing through the park trying to sell carnations to men to give to their sweethearts. So instead he shrugged and said, “Tell me about him.”

While Harry wasn’t sure what cosmopolitan actually meant, Matthew did turn out to be very attractive. And he was a grown up, two years older than him even, which Harry liked. They had a good conversation about trying to date younger men that had ended up being far more revealing than Harry had intended, but had been taken in good spirit.

Harry liked his accent too. He didn’t know any other Americans aside from Kate, and he was getting used to speaking to people for whom English was their second language, and he’d never gotten around to actually learning much French, despite Marie’s assistance.

On their date the conversation flowed easily and they shared a bottle of wine and several glasses of cognac before calling it a night. They had agreed early on that setups were a bit awkward, and had decided to take things slow and that there would be no hard feelings if one of them didn’t want a second date. It turned out that both of them did indeed want to see the other again. They left with loose plans to meet in a few days and a very continental brush of lips against cheeks. 

Before Harry had even made it back to his flat his mobile buzzed with a message from Matthew proclaiming that he’d had a great night and couldn’t wait to see him again. Harry smiled at the message and read it twice more before falling asleep.

Malfoy passed him a bottle of wine with an orange label and said, “Try this one instead, it pairs much better with fish.”

Harry placed the bottle he’d been looking at back on the shelf and took the bottle on offer and placed it in his hand basket alongside the cut of salmon he was planning on purchasing. 

It was growing colder in Paris, but Harry thought it was a bit premature for Malfoy to be wearing his scarf, particularly indoors. Since they both still lived in the same neighborhood they had run into one another on a number of occasions, but hadn’t exchanged any words beyond a brief hello or goodbye. Usually they just waved at one another from across the street, in mutual acknowledgement that the other person did in fact exist. 

Harry wondered if it should feel strange being around Malfoy again. Instead it felt perfectly normal for the other man to join in on his shopping trip.

“What do you think of this lettuce, does it look a bit wilted to you?” Malfoy asked as they wandered through produce. He had his own basket draped over one arm, and it was predictably filled with far more pastries and sweets than actual food. Harry gave him credit for buying any vegetables at all. 

“Looks fine,” he said, giving the lettuce a glance. 

They compared notes about apples, and Malfoy gave Harry advice about the pâtés then they wandered over to the checkout counter. 

“You actually spoke French,” said Malfoy incredulously after carefully watching Harry converse with the till attendant who rang him up and helped him bag his purchases. Harry just shrugged. He was meeting with Marie twice a week now, and both her English and his French was improving little by little.

They left the store with two bags each and walked out into the street. Harry nodded at Malfoy as he turned in the opposite direction. “See you around, Malfoy.”

“See you, Potter.”

Matthew rested his fingertips at Harry’s collar, fingers just barely brushing bare skin. Harry shivered as the other man grazed the bruise that had been left there only last night and batted the hand away with a smile to take the sting out of the action. Matthew laughed and rolled his eyes as Harry tugged his collar more firmly against his neck.

Despite the fact that they had been seeing one another for nearly two months now, they had only progressed to frotting against one another like teenagers recently. Harry had declared early on that he wanted to take things slow and that he was more interested in a relationship than getting off. Matthew had agreed, but seemed to take a ridiculous amount of delight in the small love bites he had taken to leaving on Harry’s neck.

If Matthew had been a wizard, Harry might have magiced the results away, but he did rather like the spark he saw in the other man’s eyes during moments like these. 

“Another bottle?” Matthew asked. He was already gesturing for the waiter. 

Harry felt sufficiently tipsy, but smiled and shrugged. It wasn’t as if he had to get up for work in the morning.

Matthew’s hand reached across the table again, this time to flick the hair from Harry’s eyes. Harry shook his head away, but laughed, enjoying the easy exchange. It had been a very long time since he’d so enjoyed the company of another person. He was thinking it would be good to increase the intimacy in their relationship.

A laugh was still on his lips when he looked across the room in search of the waiter with their wine. Instead his eyes lighted on a pale figure, sitting across the dining room, alone at a table set for two, staring back at him. 

Harry’s smile faded and he stared back at Malfoy, weighing the moment. Malfoy did not wave, or acknowledge Harry in any way, but simply looked away, threw some notes onto the table and left. 

He had expected another run-in with Malfoy at some point. What he had not expected was for the man to turn up at his flat on a Tuesday morning when he should have been at work. He hadn’t even known Malfoy knew where he lived.

Malfoy was frowning at him when he opened the door. “Potter,” he said before shoving his way inside.

“Malfoy,” said Harry and followed him into the kitchen.

Malfoy was opening the cabinets, apparently to locate a cup and saucer. He’d already turned the kettle on. “No espresso pot?” he asked.

Harry shrugged. “I don’t actually like coffee.”

Malfoy stared at him incredulously. “Of course you do, we’ve had coffee a thousand times.”

Harry shrugged again and passed Malfoy the tea tin. “Yeah, but I just didn’t know how to order tea how I like it in French.”

He hadn’t realized how much he had missed that eyebrow. “That’s ridiculous even for you, Potter.” Malfoy turned back to Harry’s counter. He was only making enough tea for one, so Harry grabbed the chipped mug for himself and nudged him over.

“Are you going to tell me what you’re doing here?” Harry asked once they were both seated on the only two stools in the kitchen. 

“I’m making a flower delivery,” replied Malfoy with a perfectly straight face.

Harry blinked and made a show of looking around. “I don’t see any flowers, Malfoy.”

“Well I refused to bring them, didn’t I? What kind of man sends another man flowers anyway?”

Harry was very nearly catching on, but decided not to face the truth quite yet. It had been too long since he’d had an inane conversation with Malfoy. “You do realize you are a florist?”

“Potter, I send my mother flowers after I forget her birthday. I send my landlady flowers whenever I am late on my rent. I’ll send a bouquet to my accountant’s office during the holidays to thank him for taking care of my taxes. I don’t send the man I’m sleeping with flowers. That practically screams, ‘Thank you for sucking my cock when no one else will you dainty little thing.’”

Somehow Harry did not manage to suppress his smile. He did try, really. “I don’t think that’s what that says at all, Malfoy.”

Malfoy slurped his tea. Loudly. 

“Has someone sent me flowers, Malfoy?” Harry asked after a moment.

Although he did not appear to want to answer, Malfoy did eventually nod.

“And I assume you took payment for those flowers?” Another nod. “But decided to only tell me about them instead of actually bringing them to me?”

“I’m not bringing you flowers, Potter,” snapped Malfoy.

Harry smiled. “Of course not.”

“Matthew Clarkson is a terribly Muggle name.”

“That’s okay,” said Harry. He did not comment on what a terribly Wizard name Draco Malfoy was. He didn’t want to hurt the other man’s feelings after all.

“He’s older than you.”

Harry kept smiling. “I know.”

Malfoy’s tongue was poking between his lips again. Harry had missed that too. He must be thinking very hard, Harry thought.

“Do you like him better than me?”

It wasn’t something Harry needed to think about it at all, but he felt he owed Matthew enough to try. “I don’t think I ever asked if you liked Lucas better than me, did I?”

Malfoy scowled, it made him look constipated, but Harry would never tell him that.

“I don’t want you to see him anymore,” said Malfoy after Harry stood to pour them both a second cuppa.

Harry didn’t answer that. It wasn’t a fair thing to say either and Malfoy knew it. 

“I don’t think I should see Lucas anymore, either,” but from the way he said it, Harry knew that even if he meant the words that didn’t mean he was going to stop anytime soon.

“It’s not my place to comment,” he said. Malfoy’s scowl deepened. 

“I didn’t want you to stop coming around to the shop. I just meant for you to leave just that one time.”

“I know,” said Harry, and he had. He just knew he couldn’t go back there anymore, even if he would be welcome. 

“So you’ll come back?” asked Malfoy and damn him, he actually looked hopeful. Harry’s smile faded. Malfoy snorted and looked away. “Of course not.”

Pickles sauntered into the room in a way that drew their attention how only cat’s can, and draped her body down on Malfoy’s feet. He reached down and scratched between her ears and didn’t say a word about the fur sticking to his trouser legs. 

“I didn’t want to be friends with you, Potter.”

Harry looked into his tea leaves and tried to read his fortune. “I didn’t want to be friends with you either, Malfoy.”

At Christmas, Marie invited Harry to another one of Lauren’s parties. He didn’t see Malfoy there, but had decided not to bring Matthew along, just in case. He had a lot more fun than he had the last time. His French was better, and he recognized more of the people from around the neighborhood, and he invited Kate and her husband Jon along to add more English speakers in case he got nervous (which he didn’t). 

Lauren’s flat was decorated in Christmas cheer, and Harry had on the scarf that Matthew had given to him the night before. They had celebrated early since Matthew was returning to the states to celebrate with his sister and nieces, and Harry was leaving for England next week to celebrate with his children. He’d given Matthew a new shaving kit and a book on French politics that Matthew had shown an interest in on one their walks. 

Harry laughed about his bad pronunciation and learned how to carol in French, he drank far too many of Lauren’s awful flavored martinis and stopped for street food with Marie on the way home, that he would almost certainly regret in the morning.

By the time Harry had turned onto his street, alone now, with nothing but dirty hands and a paper wrapper left from his kebab, he was smiling foolishly. Life felt good for once. He lived in an amazing neighborhood, in an amazing city, he had great friends, and a boyfriend who cared about him, Ginny didn’t feel like killing him anymore and he was invited to Christmas dinner with his children, and wasn’t that halo around those street lights absolutely gorgeous? 

This Christmas was decidedly better than the last, Harry decided. The Weasley’s were still holding a grudge against him for cheating on Ginny, which was fair, but they had reluctantly allowed him to join in on the Christmas festivities. It had been hard to see the look on Ron’s face when he had first flooed in from his London hotel, but later when the other man passed him a whiskey with a firm nod, he knew that things were getting better. Ron might never again speak to him the way he used to, but at least he didn’t want Harry dead.

Hermione had given him a hug, of course, even though the last time he’d seen her she’d been shouting at him through the floo. And Mrs. Weasley had embraced him as she always had, though she had a sad look on her face whenever she looked between him and Ginny.

Overall, Harry enjoyed himself. Even if the other adults were not keen on making conversation, he still had the company of his children and all of his nieces and nephews. Even Teddy and Andromeda had stopped by to spend time with him. And as he had come bearing Parisian presents, he had been as popular as Father Christmas for a few minutes. 

He had the boys and Lily for Boxing Day, so he booked a room in a suitably lavish London hotel. They ordered as much room service as they could eat and Lily spent a full hour jumping on the bed trying to touch the ceiling. The boys had been immediately distracted by the complimentary game console, and stayed up far beyond their bedtime battling it out in some sort of shooting game.

The next morning the children slept in until their pre-arranged late check out while Harry packed up their luggage. Then he made it through the tearful goodbyes with his children who were heading back to the home Harry had once shared with Ginny, while Harry was left making his way to Hogsmeade alone.

There were few things that Harry missed about the Wizarding world, but one of them was most definitely Honeydukes chocolate. With his bags packed and shrunken in his magically expanding pockets (bigger on the inside thanks to Hermione), he decided to brave the Wizarding village before returning to his Muggle seclusion. There was nothing he could do about his glasses, but he tugged a knit hat (Weasley made) over his forehead, and turned his collar up around his face. He knew it was too much to hope to avoid recognition, but maybe if he was lucky…

“Mr. Potter?”

He was not.

Harry turned, clutching an extra large bar of Honeydukes finest against his chest and stared at the woman who had tapped him on the shoulder. He hadn’t seen Narcissa Malfoy in years. Not since her trial at least. She’d been the only member of her family to escape extreme punishment, thanks in part to his own testimony. House arrest, he recalled through the haze of time. Lucius was still in Azkaban to his knowledge.

“Mrs. Malfoy,” he managed as respectfully as possible, though it felt strange calling this woman by the same name as his somehow-not friend.

“Happy Christmas, Mr. Potter. I hope that you’ve enjoyed your holiday,” she said. She had a fancy box of truffles clutched in one hand. 

“I have, and you?” he asked automatically.

Her lips thinned. “As well as can be expected.”

Right, thought Harry. Husband in prison, son in exile, and sister still estranged.

“My son tells me that you’ve become friends,” she continued on.

“Has he?” Harry said with genuine surprise. He knew absolutely nothing about Narcissa and Malfoy’s relationship. What sort of things had Malfoy said about him exactly?

“Yes, he tells me that your children are very fine indeed. He speaks of them quite fondly.”

Harry didn’t quite know how to respond to that so he only said, “Thank you.”

She looked down at her hands in consideration. “I don’t suppose I could request a favor from you?”

He wanted to tell her he owed her his life, but instead only nodded.

“I’ve sent Draco his Christmas gift already, of course, but I find the Muggle post to be so impersonal,” she was looking at the chocolates in her hand. “Would you mind terribly if I sent something along with you? I assume you are returning to Paris soon, correct?”

“As soon as I buy this actually,” said Harry, holding up his chocolate bars in evidence.

“Ah,” she was smiling a bit sadly. “Of course. Then perhaps you may give me a moment to purchase these? He loves the caramel ones, but they’re all out at the moment.

So Harry spent several awkward moments standing at the till with Malfoy’s mother while she purchased the truffle medley and wrote out a short note to be attached after it was gift-wrapped. 

As she reluctantly handed him the lovingly prepared bundle he had a moment’s commiseration for a parent separated from one’s child. “Can’t you visit him?” he asked as he wondered who Malfoy had spent Christmas with anyways.

She smiled sadly and Harry was struck by how lovely she must have been as a girl and how world worn she looked now. “He prefers that I stay away. Just, tell him I love him.” Then as if she thought this an imposition she added, “If you would, Mr. Potter. I do so appreciate this.”

Paris had been beautifully decorated for Christmas, and had retained its holiday charm even several days after the holiday.

Harry had dropped his things off at his flat, and then decided to walk down to Malfoy’s shop with his parcel under his arm. If he hurried, he could catch Malfoy before he went home for the night.

The light was still on in the shop, but the doors were locked and Malfoy was nowhere to be seen, so Harry had to knock on the glass door to rouse Malfoy from the back room.

The other man looked drawn and tired, but had smiled when he caught sight of Harry standing at the door.

“Is this for me?” he asked with such delight that Harry didn’t even complain when the chocolates were ripped from beneath his arm without so much as a hello.

“Whom else would they be for?”

Even through all of their summer conversations Malfoy had never turned the full force of his smile on Harry before the way he did at Harry’s words. Harry felt something he knew he really shouldn’t at the sight, and bit his tongue to keep himself from saying anything.

“Harry,” said Malfoy in a breathless voice and Harry inhaled sharply at the plea. Another first. Malfoy had never used his first name before.

“From your mother,” Harry hastened to add. He fingered the fringe of his new Christmas scarf and tried to think of Matthew. 

Malfoy’s expression did not so much as fall as it did freeze. The smile looked much more forced now. “From Mother. Yes, of course.” He looked down at the box and nodded to himself. 

“Malfoy,” Harry sighed, somehow he felt like a monster and he wasn’t entirely sure what he’d done wrong.

“Thanks for playing delivery boy, Potter,” drawled Malfoy as he turned away. He tossed the chocolates onto the counter without a second look, he was already headed for the back room again. “See you around.”

Harry stood in the resulting silence, his hands clenched at his side, tongue clutched between his teeth. One corner of the box of chocolates was dented, and Malfoy had tossed the package upside down so the lovingly placed ribbon was smashed against the glass counter.

He stepped over to the counter and righted the box as best he could, smoothing down the red paper and adjusting the green ribbon. Narcissia’s note was bent, but there was nothing he could do about that. So with one last brush of his fingertips he retreated from the package and from the shop.

Matthew was staying in New York for New Years so Harry accepted Lauren’s invitation to a New Years Eve party when it came. He had hoped to regain some of his pre-Christmas cheer, but when the first person he’d seen at the party was Malfoy pouring drinks in the kitchen, he knew it was useless. Lauren shot him a look of understanding, but also seemed determined to play matchmaker. He’d already been told no less than three times that Lucas was not attending tonight’s festivities, and he didn’t really appreciate the implication.

Marie was blissfully unaware of his past attraction to Malfoy, and Kate had been the one to set him up with Matthew, so Harry sequestered himself in a corner with the girls. Kate’s husband Jon was a decent conversationalist, but he was more interested in celebrating with his wife while the baby was at home with the sitter than in talking with Harry. At around ten Craig and Pierre came through, ‘Making the rounds’ as Craig explained, they invited Harry to join them at their next party which they promised to be much more fun, but Harry declined.

Throughout the night Malfoy made several attempts at catching Harry’s attention, mostly through sidelong glances and plaintive stares. Harry ignored all of it, particularly the way Malfoy had looked at him during the countdown, one lip pressed between his teeth, eyes wide and somehow vulnerable and challenging at the same time. Harry escaped in the aftermath of celebrating the New Year without saying goodbye to any of his friends.

Somehow he wasn’t surprised by the knock to his door when it came. He stood with his head resting on the painted wood for several moments as he contemplated the merits of actually opening the door. Pickles stared at him from the kitchen, her tail flicking back and forth angrily.

“Took you long enough,” said Malfoy when he opened the door, and then he pulled Harry forward by his shirtfront and proceeded to devour his mouth.

Harry gasped at the contact, opening his mouth almost instantly to Malfoy’s searching tongue. He pressed himself against the other man, chest to chest, and allowed his lips to be bitten and sucked on. Malfoy’s hands were still stuck between their bodies, so Harry wrapped his around the other man’s hips and ran his hands down Malfoy’s arse. 

Malfoy groaned and pushed Harry through the threshold back into his apartment. Pickles made a yowling noise at the intrusion and scampered off. Malfoy kicked the door shut behind them and reached for Harry again. This time Harry skittered away, breathing heavily.

“Wait, damn it,” he snapped when Malfoy made an impatient noise and went after him again.

“I’ve been waiting.” Harry could practically hear the pout, but did not look up. Instead he reached his fingertips under his glasses and pinched his eyes. His mind was decidedly fuzzy and he’d had far too much to drink to think rationally.

“Why are you doing this?” said Harry once he felt able to control himself again. “Why now?”

His mouth was open, Harry noted. And his lips were swollen. 

“I broke it off with Lucas,” said Malfoy. “Last month. I haven’t seen him in weeks.”

Harry signed. “I’m glad for you. But I’m still with Matthew.”

Malfoy’s mouth snapped shut and this time Harry didn’t have time to resist before he was being pressed against the kitchen wall, with Malfoy sliding his tongue in between his teeth to wrestle his tongue. This time Harry shoved him away with force.

“I said, I’m still with Matthew,” snapped Harry. “This isn’t the way to go about things, Malfoy.”

“I want you,” pleaded Malfoy and Harry had to shut his eyes and turn away in case that thought tempted him too much. Malfoy reached for him again, and Harry stepped away, heading for the relative safety of the sitting room. 

Malfoy, of course, followed.

“I’m not cheating on my boyfriend, Malfoy.” It sounded like he was whining, Harry hated that. He fell onto a chair rather than the couch. He didn’t want Malfoy sitting next to him. Malfoy took the hint, but remained standing, his hands tucked tightly against his chest.

“Don’t you want me?” Malfoy’s voice was so small.

“Don’t ask me that Malfoy,” said Harry. He was so tired all of a sudden. “It isn’t fair.”

Malfoy sat on the couch heavily and placed his head in his hands. To Harry’s horror his back began heaving up and down as he sobbed quietly into his hands. 

Harry briefly closed his eyes shut as he wished for things to be different, and then went to join Malfoy on the couch. Malfoy fell into his arms easily, tucking his head beneath Harry’s chin, his pale hair tickling Harry’s lip. It wasn’t a comfortable position with Malfoy resting all of his weight on him so Harry dragged them down so that they were half-leaning half-lying against the side of the long couch. 

He was so very, very tired and he just wanted this all to end so he could go back to being happy again. But he shushed Draco’s quiet tears and ran his hand up and down the other man’s back the way he used to when his children had a nightmare. 

“Did I tell you about how things were when I first moved to Paris?” said Malfoy.

He had been steadily sniffling and nuzzling into Harry and his sudden words must have woken him from a near doze. Harry forced his mind to clear and hummed against Malfoy’s forehead. “You had no money, but a friend let you stay at his place for free.”

“Not exactly,” said Malfoy in an almost whisper. “I met a man who wanted to keep me.”

Harry frowned. “What do you mean keep?”

“He let me have the flat and gave me money for groceries and things so long as I entertained him whenever he decided to show up,” Malfoy was still whispering.

Suddenly Harry felt very awake and it felt like his heart was beating very, very fast.

“I didn’t have many options, remember,” added Malfoy quickly. “I had no money, and nowhere to go, and no one else wanted me. It was a good deal for someone like me.”

“Malfoy,” said Harry, because he felt he should at least say something but he didn’t know what.

“It wasn’t so bad really. He wasn’t ugly or anything, even though he was a lot older, and I had a lot of time to myself. And he helped me pay for L’Universite when I decided to enroll.”

“But you left, didn’t you?” said Harry.

Malfoy dug his hands into the front of Harry’s shirt and held on as if Harry might run away. “Yes, but only because I started sleeping with my French teacher. I stayed with him after that.”

Harry pressed his eyes closed and forced himself to remain still. He wasn’t sure what he would do otherwise. Would he hold Malfoy closer or push him away?

“There’s more I take it?” 

“You said once that you wanted a real relationship,” said Malfoy in answer.

“I did say that,” responded Harry. Malfoy’s hair was tickling his nose again, he nudged it away.

“I think I’d like to know what that’s like,” Malfoy moved his head back until he was staring at Harry. His eyes were red and swollen, Harry noted.

Harry stared back for a long moment as he thought. “Why did you do that to yourself?”

Malfoy blinked. “Because nobody else wanted me.”

With a sigh Harry tightened his arms around the man beside him until Malfoy’s face was pressed back against his chest. He didn’t know what to say so instead of speaking they lay together in silence for a long time until eventually he fell asleep.

Harry awoke to gentle fingertips tracing down his nose. He opened one eye, but the image of Malfoy’s face before his remained bleary. He’d lost his glasses at some point then. 

Malfoy didn’t acknowledge Harry’s newly aware state and simply continued his exploration. The fingertips traced along his jaw, then back up to his cheekbones, and against his forehead. Harry closed his eyes as the fingers trailed down his face and opened both again when the fingers stopped against his lips.

It seemed perfectly natural then to lean forward and kiss the man that was still entwined in his arms. Malfoy was sweet and pliant in a way he hadn’t been before. Their kisses were languid and careful now instead of desperate and forceful. Malfoy relinquished control gracefully, and welcomed Harry’s tongue into his own mouth and gasped against Harry’s lips. When Harry moved his attention to lavishing open-mouthed kisses against the other man’s throat, Malfoy gasped and arched his body against Harry’s. 

One of Malfoy’s hands ended up tangled in Harry’s hair. He pulled at the hairs at the nape of Harry’s neck and tugged Harry’s lips back up to his. They kissed for a long time, and let their hands explore one another’s bodies. They both remained entirely clothed, but Harry sought out the shape of Malfoy’s lean muscles by running his hands over his shirt, as Malfoy slid his hands down his back. It was dark and slow and lazy, as if they had all the time in the world and so when eventually Malfoy pressed his palm against Harry’s clothed prick and Harry came, he gasped in surprise against Malfoy’s mouth. Malfoy followed a moment later, as he ground his erection against Harry’s hip.

Harry fumbled for his wand and eliminated the mess even as he pressed closed mouthed kisses against Malfoy’s lips. Then he clutched the other man against his chest tightly and drifted back into sleep.

Harry was sitting across the room staring at his hands when Malfoy woke up. The other man’s eyes were open, staring questioningly at him, as if surprised to find him sitting so far away. Harry stared back. 

“I cheated on Ginny,” admitted Harry. “A lot. With a lot of different men. I hated myself for it, and I deserve every hurtful thing she ever said to me. I broke up my family and lost more friendships than I can count, I never wanted to be that person again.”

“I’m sorry.” Malfoy’s voice was deeper than usual, and a little scratchy.

Harry looked away. “I think you need to be alone for awhile.”

“What?” asked Malfoy in that still odd voice.

“It sounds like you’ve been going from relationship to relationship for a long time. When was the last time you were alone?”

Malfoy looked wounded, his mouth was opening and shutting in indignation. “I’m always alone!” He said finally.

The truth in those words hurt, but Harry forced himself to look away again. “But not really. Not truly single.”

“And you? Married out of Hogwarts, only divorced one year? You’ve been alone a lot have you?” Harry winced at the tone. Malfoy hadn’t been so callous in months. Malfoy was sitting up now, swinging his legs off the couch and pushing himself up with his hands. “Well?” he demanded.

Harry focused his attention on the potted plant in the corner. It was a cactus, Malfoy had given it to him for his birthday and assured him it was the one plant he couldn’t kill. 

“Maybe I need to be alone for awhile too.”

Harry avoided looking at Malfoy for a bit longer, but when he looked up Malfoy was staring out the balcony window. “I don’t want to leave here while I’m this angry with you.”

“I don’t want that either, Malfoy.”

Malfoy sighed. “Can’t you call me by my name at least, please Harry?”

“Of course, Draco.”

Draco nodded and folded his arms across his chest. His tongue was pressed between his lips. “See you, Harry.”

Harry sighed as he watched the other man turn around and head for the door. “See you, Draco.”

It wasn’t as bad as when Ginny had found out, but then again, this time Harry hadn’t been caught with his pants literally around his ankles. This time he had to be the one to come clean. He knew he could have hid the truth from Matthew, it would be easy to lie about this. No one had seen them together, and Malfoy, Draco, certainly wouldn’t tell him. Or at least Harry didn’t think so. And it wasn’t like he didn’t have experience about lying about his infidelities in the past. 

He had liked this relationship. Matthew was fun, and easy to be around, and he cared about Harry and the things Harry liked. He had even thought about introducing Matthew to his kids, and they’d been talking about going away on a holiday together in the spring. And now Harry was confessing that he’d spent the night with another man. 

“Well,” said Matthew after a long pause. “I guess that’s it then.”

Harry felt miserable and stared across the room at the man he genuinely still cared about. “Is it?”

Matthew avoided his gaze and looked away. “Yes, Harry, it is.”

Being single wasn’t really so different than being in a relationship. He still spent Sundays at the market, he still went to his yoga lessons, and met Marie for their language exchange, and he’d always slept in his big bed alone. But now he didn’t have Matthew’s frequent texts, or their weekly double dates with Craig and Pierre, and he definitely missed the sex that had never involved removing one another’s clothes with anything but their hands. 

Worse still, he felt like he’d broken it off with two people. He hadn’t seen Malfoy much through fall and winter, but now it felt like he’d lost the other man all over again. This time when Malfoy caught sight of him from across the street he didn’t wave or acknowledge Harry in any way, he just kept walking.

In April Harry decided he’d been unemployed too long. He’d left the Auror’s nearly a year and a half ago, and although he’d enjoyed being unemployed for a bit, it was time for a new challenge. He’d been unsure about working for a wizarding establishment, but his only work experience had been in law enforcement and he had enjoyed it. 

He took his CV to Ministère de la Justice and met with several men he’d collaborated with in the past. Three weeks later and he was hired on as an Auror. It wasn’t as senior as his job in London had been, and he wasn’t paid as much, but in some ways it was so much better. For one, he had been right, no one in France gave a damn about his name and if he was recognized it was only with uninterested glances and brief lingering pauses that were quickly forgotten. 

He and his partner Adrien got on well, and Adrien took Harry to Wizarding Paris for the first time since Harry’s first visit to Paris years and years ago. He took to wearing robes again, and apparated out of his flat in the morning and back at night. He spent less and less time in his neighborhood, but still made a point to meet Kate in the park on Sundays now it was sunny enough to do so again. And he still did dinner with Marie on Tuesdays, and he started attending the night yoga class instead of the day one. 

His social schedule was much the same, only now Harry also had a weekly pub quiz with his colleagues, and he was regularly invited out for a pint or a glass of wine in the Wizarding quarter on Friday nights. 

And then before he knew it, it was summer, and it had been months since he’d seen Malfoy or his kids, so when Lily suggested a walk down to Malfoy’s shop he’d said yes.

There was a bell above the door now, Malfoy looked up when they walked through and Harry could tell from the look on his face that he hated the new addition. The scowl at the bell flitted to surprise and then something like glee before being forced back into boredom when Malfoy spoke.

“Absolutely, under no circumstances look in the back refrigerator. There’s a poisonous snake in there and not a box of macarons.”

Lily and Albus exchanged grins and scampered away, James rolled his eyes and continued on in a fashionably slow pace. 

The corner of Malfoy’s lips twitched and the tip of his tongue poked out between them.

Harry smiled and took a seat on what he considered to be his stool. “So, Draco,” he said. “Do you want to come to my birthday party next week?”

It was hard to believe that it had been over a year since he’d moved. This time last year he’d been sharing a cramped table with his three children and trying not to think of Draco Malfoy on his date.

This year they’d taken up the whole of the tiny restaurant. His kids had a table to themselves where Lily was making faces to entertain Kate and Jon’s giggling daughter. Marie had brought along her new beau, an English man by the name of Gerald. She’d thanked Harry profusely for all of the English lessons since otherwise, she said, she never would have understood that Gerald was trying to ask her out. Craig and Pierre arrived accompanied by Charles the teacup poodle or as Pierre put it ‘Their darling baby boy.’ Lauren had arrived with a number of other acquaintances Harry had made at her numerous parties, and Harry’s partner Adrian had joined in and brought a majority of their department. Of course the magical folks were all dressed so ridiculously that Harry had needed to explain away their wardrobes in an attempt at fancy dress. 

“I can’t believe that’s your partner.”

“Don’t be mean, Malfoy,” chided Harry.

Draco scoffed. “Draco. And come on, but he does not have the legs for that outfit.”

“Right, Draco.” Sometimes Harry still forgot and slipped. Sometimes he did it on purpose. “He wanted to come to a proper Muggle party. He’s trying.”

Draco pressed up against Harry’s side and sought out his hand with one of his own. Harry slid their palms together and clutched at the other man’s fingers. 

“Remind him to try a little harder next time,” continued Draco. “Or at least buy the man some stockings.”

Harry chuckled and stared at his Auror partner. Adrien really did look ridiculous in that dress. 

“Ooh, cake!” cried Draco, tossing aside Harry’s hand in favor of grabbing a fork from the table.

Lauren laughed and held the plate out of Draco’s reach. “It’s Harry’s birthday, Draco, he gets the first slice.”

Harry smiled at Draco’s pout and took the offered plate from Lauren. Lily was cutting the cake so of course she’d given him a slice with a big pink carnation. “Thanks,” he said and laughed again at the murderous look on Draco’s face. “Fine, you can have the first bite.”

The look on Draco’s face remained utterly frosty as if to say, “Damn straight I get the first bite,” but the effect was somewhat ruined by the enormous bite he stuffed between his lips a moment later. The icing from the pink carnation was streaked across his upper lip.

Harry looked down at his plate to see that Draco’s somehow managed to steal half the piece in one bite. He shook his head in silent laughter, knocked the fork out of Draco’s hand, and entwined their fingers once more. 

“Go out on a date with me. Tomorrow,” he said.

“Oh-key, Phot-her,” Draco managed from around the gooey chocolate. He hadn’t even tried to finish his bite before answering, or covered his mouth. 

Harry just laughed and licked the pink frosting from the other man’s lips. “Okay, Malfoy.”

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally written back in 2012? Or 2013? Either way, it was never published and at the time was very kindly edited by pandemon_iumas.


End file.
